


Colour of the Storm

by Khaai



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5844823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaai/pseuds/Khaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fact occurred to him much too often now, that he was alone; that despite the other body that shared the tiny, barely-a-two-bedroom house with him, Marty was completely and utterly alone, without anyone to care for him. Without anyone for him to care for. And nothing could ever change that, because now his father was dead.</p><p>Nothing made up for that fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colour of the Storm

Marty hated the colour blue.

 

It wasn’t the royal blue of the navy that he hated, no, not such a bright and abrasive colour that practically screams _look at me, look at me_ ; nor was it the almost watery pale-blue of skies clouded thick enough to filter some light through, yet still be able to leave the day colder than it should be. No, there was a very specific shade of blue that Marty despised, and that was the dark grey-blue of the sea on a cloudy day, the colour of a storm hours before the first gale has even hit land - the desolate shade of a single tear in drawings. The colour of a drop of rainwater, falling into a roadside puddle.

 

If you'd asked him why he hated the colour so much, he might have stuttered and stammered for a few moments, struggling to make something up; if  you'd asked him why, Marty might have said that the eyes of his first ex, who'd dumped him for someone else, were the colour of the ocean, or that his car, his crappy, old, beatdown 1995 Lincoln Town Car that never really worked exactly right, was painted that shade to cover up the spots of rust that came free with it, a two-for-one package deal.

 

If you'd asked him why, Marty might have even said that there wasn't a reason at all behind his hatred. He might have said that he hated it simply because it was just one of those things - a pet-peeve - like nails scraping against a chalkboard or someone biting down on ice.

 

Not once would he dare to tell of the truth behind it all. Not once would his eyes meet the questioner's as he gave his excuses, as he said his piece, each word carefully practiced with shaky hands, salted eyes and cheeks. There was no point in inviting yet more unwanted ears and attention into his home, his family, by telling the truth.

 

Everyone had assumed that after his father had left home one miserable evening and had failed to return, that he'd packed his bags, waited for the next Greyhound, and left the family of two others that was practically falling apart around him for a new, better life. It wasn't uncommon for that to happen, not in this old, rundown fishing town, where everyone thought everyone else was  the absolute scum-of-the-earth, where cheating - or getting cheated on - was pretty much mandatory before a relationship was even deemed anything, no matter your age.

 

It wasn't uncommon for that to happen to families, not at all. It happened all the time, so often that most similar stories had failed to garner any attention whatsoever. Marty's father was the talk of the town for roughly one week - the week after the night he'd left - before something else, something more interesting, took its place and his father had, for the most part, faded into obscurity once more. To the townsfolk, he was yet another lucky guy who'd managed to make his way off of a sinking ship. To Marty, he was a coward. A traitor.

 

If he could feel anything but anger as he thought of the man's name, Marty would have pitied him.

 

As it was, Marty would have to settle for a deep-burning abhorrence; nothing could make up for the fact of what his father had done. Nothing made up for the fact that his father - his dad -  had left him alone with nobody but his do-nothing, demanding mother, who kept putting off bills in order to be able to fuel all of her many addictions.

 

That fact occurred to him too often now, that he was alone; that despite the other body that shared the tiny, barely-a-two-bedroom house with him, Marty was completely and utterly alone, without anyone to care for him. Without anyone for him to care for. And nothing could ever change that, because now his father was dead.

 

Marty remembered waking up in the middle of the night, remembered glancing over at his alarm clock to the sounds of  distant thunderbirds rolling across the open sea and his father's work boots clicking against the floor with each of his  large-footed steps.

 

He remembered snapping his eyes shut as a beam of wavering, golden light flooded into his tiny room, blocked only by a wide-shouldered silhouette. Marty tried his best not to flinch away as his father had stepped close and muttered two and a half words into a head of messy, untrimmed hair, as breath laced with sorrow and unmistakeable pain ghosted across his face, the voice of his dad the last thing he heard before the sound of his bedroom door shutting with an uneasing gentleness shocked him back to alertness.

 

_"I'm sorry."_

 

Marty had jolted up the moment he heard the sound of the creaking front door shut, throwing on a jacket, socks, boots, and anything else he needed to keep warm. He didn't care to be quiet, at least not now; his mom was probably out cold, there was no surprise there, and it wasn't like there was anyone else in the house who he could possibly disturb. In record time, he was out the door, taking care to shut it as quiet as he could behind him.

 

In the gloom, he could hardly make out the now-tiny form of his dad, shoulders hunched, as he walked down the sidewalk, and Marty, cautious to stay hidden and out of sight - which, mind you, certainly wasn't hard; it was dark outside, bordering on the edge of twilight, and Marty's father didn’t seem to be worried about anyone stalking him at this hour - followed shortly behind.

 

At first, he'd thought that his father was on his way to the only bus station in the town, like everyone else had thought after this night, but Marty’s idle musings had been dashed as his father passed by it with little hesitation.

 

It was ten minutes more of anxious waiting and half-hiding, half-walking, before they arrived at the cliffside. From his vantage point not twenty meters away, Marty knew that below rested nothing but rocks and old, abandoned gulls' nests; that, farther away, dock workers were already up and about, loading ships, unloading them, readying them so fishers were able to sail off soon, despite the storm still thundering away on the not-so-distant horizon. He knew, also, that down there awaited the ghosts and skeletons of teens just drunk enough to stumble off, of some who found that the only way out was through a fall that most others would dare not take.

 

The town was called Suicide Harbour for a reason.

 

Marty remembered watching as his father stepped forward. Stepped towards the cliff. He remembered being frozen in fear, held still by panic, all the words he wanted to say blocked by invisible hands holding his throat shut. He remembered wanting to scream, to yell, as his father leaned towards the edge, the dangerous, beautiful edge; he remembered revealing himself just a moment too late.

 

Marty remembered doing nothing but wishing as his father fell into the surf. Remembered chasing after him, running, running, blind with panic and fury. He stopped running only when he was at the edge of the cliff, inches away from sharing his father's fate as the skies opened up around him and he was surrounded by a torrent of water, rage, pain.

 

Marty remembered the colour blue. The colour hatred. The grey-blue of the ocean on that miserable day, cloaked by a thundershower filled with anger, as if sent by the Gods themselves after what his father had done, after Marty had been left alone without anyone to care for him. Without anyone for him to care for.

  


Marty hated the colour blue.

 


End file.
